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HIS BIRTHDAY 


















r i 















HIS BIRTHDAY 


MARY 


THE 

BOSTON 


BY 

ELLEN CHASE 




PILGRIM PRESS 
NEW YORK CHICAGO 









“Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, 

A happy, human child among the homes of men, 

The age of doubt would cease, the vision of Thy face 
Would silently restore the childhood of the race .* 9 

—Henry Van Dyke. 




















CONTENTS 

Chapter Page 

I. The Boy Jesus in Nazareth ... 3 

II. The Birthday Gifts.19 

III. The Story of Jesus’ First Birthday Retold 33 

















•• 
























I 

THE BOY JESUS IN NAZARETH 










































HIS BIRTHDAY 



I 

THE BOY JESUS IN NAZARETH 

I T was late afternoon in Nazareth of Gali¬ 
lee. Through the narrow streets the 
laborers from the fields without the vil¬ 
lage hurried homeward. Workmen, their 
heavy tools resting on their roughly-clad 
shoulders, passed weary-footed over the rude 
stones paving the road. Here and there a 
bronzed and bearded shepherd, crook in 
hand, led his flock to safer shelter, for the 
nights were chill even in the lower hill- 
folds. Small groups of the soldiers of Augus¬ 
tus, scornful of these silent Hebrews and 
disgruntled over their own station in this 
impoverished and remote province of the Em¬ 
pire, sauntered idly along the streets, or 
gave rude proofs of their authority to the 
3 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


quiet Nazarenes, to whom the grandeur of 
Rome meant little save much discomfort 
and too heavy taxation. 

Eastward from the village led a foot-path, 
worn by the feet of many generations; and 
along this path through the awakening fields 
the girls and women of Nazareth went in 
companies of twos and threes to fill their 
jars and pitchers of clay and goat-skin at the 
fountain, whose clear water had for centuries 
given refreshment not only to the Nazareth 
folk, but also to the traveller and wayfarer 
on the dusty, stone-strewn roads of Pales¬ 
tine. It was a joyful little procession at this 
evening hour, for the heavy rains of early 
winter had granted one day’s respite, and the 
sun was sinking into the western Mediter¬ 
ranean in a sky as clear and blue as the sea 
itself. Gladly the women in their bright- 
colored garments trooped along — some driv¬ 
ing small flocks or herds, others holding 
their pitchers lightly upon their shoulders, or 
balancing them easily upon their dark, shapely 
heads; gaily they exchanged greetings or 
shared some village incident, while the chil¬ 
dren darted from the path to snatch eagerly 
4 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


after field-flowers, whose petals the day’s 
long sunshine had opened in the new 
grass. 

At the fountain other and strange faces 
greeted their own; other and strange words 
returned their evening welcome; for this 
fountain without Nazareth was the daily 
resting-place of many a caravan from Egypt 
and the farther Eastern deserts, bound for 
Ephesus or other rich cities of Asia Minor, 
of companies of white-robed Arabs, bent on 
ever inscrutable errands, of dark-skinned 
Numidians, henchmen of Rome, of footsore, 
many-tongued pilgrims from the lands far 
beyond Jordan. But simple gratitude for the 
water which gushed into the stone-built well 
and trough, a common joy in the sunlit 
hills, and that strange reverence which all 
men feel in the mysterious hush of twilight, 
shattered the barriers of race and speech, 
and made of the Nazarenes and the travel¬ 
lers comrades in a common fellowship. And 
as Rebekah gave the servant of Abraham to 
drink, so the maidens of Nazareth gave 
drink from their pitchers to the weary and 
the wayworn who had no jars of their own; 

5 




































HIS BIRTHDAY 


and so, also, did many a Jacob from Egypt 
or Rome or beyond the Jordan help to water 
the sheep and fill the jars of the Rachels of 
Nazareth. 

Then as the blue melted into the gold of 
the later sunset time, and as the Galilean 
hills deepened and darkened in the glow, 
those clustered about the fountain went again 
upon their ways, — the travellers to continue 
their journeyings until time to camp for the 
night, the dwellers in Nazareth to go again 
to their homes. Yet the evening was so 
rare for the wintry season and the twilight 
so beautiful, that several, perhaps unham¬ 
pered by urgent duties at home and loath to 
lose the sun sooner than necessary, chose to 
climb the hill back of the village and view 
the Galilean country at this loveliest time of 
the day. 

Two had preceded them in thought and 
action — a woman and her child. Already 
they were halfway up the hill, the woman’s 
white-gowned figure moving lightly, unhalt- 
ingly; the child clinging to a fold of her robe, 
and trying to equal her long, easy steps with 
his own small feet. On one shoulder she 
6 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


carried a brown water-jar, which she steadied 
with a firm hand, and which seemed no 
impediment to her ascent, for she soon and 
easily gained the summit and turned her 
face southward, the child’s eyes following her 
own. 

She was of a type rare in Galilee, — a 
woman well-knit, of large frame, though 
lithe and graceful of movement. Her skin 
was fine of texture, clear, and olive in color, 
save for a healthy glow in her cheeks; her 
nose and chin, cleanly cut and strong with 
an emotional kind of strength; her mouth, 
sweet, appealing, almost sad; her forehead, 
full and somewhat high, though its height 
was softened by brown hair parted upon it; 
her eyes, blue-gray and far apart, were wist¬ 
ful with indiscernible longing, joyous with 
motherhood, strange with a vision of the 
Unseen. It was as if they had looked upon 
the intangible, which is at the heart of things, 
and had understood — for a moment. 

She stood upon the summit of the hill — 
her hand, long, slender, and finely-cut, be¬ 
yond the imagination or the skill of any 
worshipping artist, resting upon the shoulder 
7 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


of her son. He was very like her — this 
little boy of hers. He stood leaning against 
her, one brown hand clutching the fold of 
her garment, the other playing with her long 
fingers on his shoulder. His tunic of white 
wool reached only to his knees, which were 
sturdy, brown, and bare, as were his legs 
and loosely sandaled feet. His throat was 
slender, and the lines of his nose and chin 
were, even at six years, very like his mother’s 
in strength and sweetness. His hair, heavier 
and darker than her own, though still brown 
like the brown of a ripe filbert nut, grew 
back from his forehead and fell in curls 
about his neck. His skin was of the same 
fine texture as that of his mother, but some¬ 
what lighter in color, and his cheeks were 
tinged with the clear pink of flax blossoms in 
the fields around Nazareth. Behind the 
child’s joyousness in his deep blue eyes lay 
the same mystery that haunted her own; 
the same wistful longing; the same mystic 
vision. Was that which lay in his a bequest 
from her, or had he brought both from 
whence he came? 

So they stood together and watched the 

8 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


sunset glow touch the blue line of the hills 
of Moab on the southeast, gild the summit 
of Tabor, and suffuse with purple light the 
far distances of the Jordan Valley. Snow- 
clad Hermon reached to Carmel on the south, 
Carmel swept away to the sea on the' south¬ 
west, and thus surrounded by a tumbled 
mass of hills stretched the great Plain of 
Esdraelon, on whose vast surface Gideon 
had put to flight the Midianites and Sisera 
had been conquered. Esdraelon — that great 
battle ground of ages past and of ages yet 
to come, when southern hordes should at¬ 
tempt to exterminate by the sword a religion 
bom in this very Nazareth! 

Now in the half-light shadowy, slow-moving 
forms crept here and there in long lines 
across Esdraelon — caravans plodding north¬ 
ward. 

“ They are bearing wealth to Rome,” 
she told him, while his eyes, big with wonder, 
counted the camels in the dim, uncertain 
light. 

From the southeast, beyond the white 
roofs of Nain, came a gleam of light, then 
another and another — the sun’s lingering 

9 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


rays flashing upon Roman spears and shields. 
A legion was coming up the Valley of the 
Jordan, journeying homeward after Parthian 
conquests perhaps. 

“ Soldiers! ” cried the child, his eyes 
shining. “ Soldiers of Augustus! When I 
am grown, I, too, perhaps may bear a spear 
and shield. Would that please thee, mother?” 

She looked at him tenderly, caressed his 
cheek, and drew his dark head closer. 

“The Holy City of thy fathers lies south¬ 
ward,” she said, “ and Bethlehem where 
thou wast born; far beyond Esdraelon and 
the hills of Samaria and the waste places of 
Judah. Thou hast been in Jerusalem with 
thy father and me at the time of the Pass- 
over, but thou rememberest it little. When 
thou art older grown, thou wilt perhaps jour¬ 
ney there again, and learn to become a priest 
in the great temple.” 

Her eyes, vague with dreams, sought the 
southern mountains. The child laughed 
thoughtfully. 

“ My father would wish me to be a car¬ 
penter in Nazareth,” he said, “ and thou, a 
priest in the great temple, and I, a soldier 
10 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


of Augustus, but braver than those who dwell 
in our village.” 

His mother’s eyes gleamed with an in¬ 
stant’s fleeting vision; his mother’s arm 
drew him closer. 

“ The dreams of a mother are strangely 
real,” she said at last. “ Some day thou 
shalt be at Jerusalem in the great temple. 
Of that I am very sure. But the darkness is 
hastening. We must go down to thy father 
who awaits us, and to the stories I promised 
thee. Thou hast not forgotten? ” 

“ No,” he answered eagerly, as they de¬ 
scended in the half-light. “ All day I have 
been waiting; and my father’s gift was all 
but ready for me when we went to draw the 
water. It must be now quite complete.” 

“ And mine, also.” 

“ Hast thou a gift besides, mother? ” he 
cried joyfully, his face aglow. “ Hast thou 
truly one besides? Shall I know to-night? 
I need not wait till morning! Say that I 
need not! ” 

She smiled, glad in his happiness. “ Thou 
needst not wait,” she promised, his hand in 
hers. “ Thou mayest have it to-night. Take 

11 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


care, dear, lest the stones pierce thy feet. 
Thy sandals are worn, and I would not have 
thee hurt.” 

Slowly the western glow died away. The 
hills, darker grown, seemed to withdraw 
farther into the shadows, as though the sun 
had unlocked their mysteries, they all un¬ 
willing. One star gleamed over Carmel as 
the boy and his mother left the hill-path for 
the narrow village street. A few minutes 
and the street had widened into a kind of 
village gathering-ground and meeting-place 
where town councils were held and where 
the boys of Nazareth enjoyed their sports 
and games. Of late years, much to the 
discomfort of the Nazar enes, the Roman 
guards had made this their rendezvous; and 
the lads of Nazareth, like other lads of all 
countries and all times, could not refrain 
from gathering here to gaze with mingled 
hatred and admiration upon the shining 
helmets, the carven shields, and the mighty 
spears of Rome. 

To-night, as was not unusual, there was 
apparently trouble. A crowding together of 
boys and soldiers, a shout of triumph fol- 

12 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


lowed by indignant cries, betokened its pres¬ 
ence as the boy and his mother approached. 
The child saw quickly what had happened. 

“It is Joel! ” he cried. “ The lame son 
of Isaac, the sheep-herder! They have broken 
his new ball, which but yesterday his father 
bought from a trader, and they play with the 
halves! ” 

He sprang from his mother’s side, and ran 
with all his might into the shouting group of 
men and boys. The shouting ceased, the 
soldiers of Augustus fell back, the boys stood 
still. The child’s eyes were dark with anger, 
his lips quivered, his hands were clenched 
tightly. 

“ What is this thou doest? ” he cried, 
addressing the foremost soldier. “ Thou hast 
broken Joel’s ball by rough handling, and he 
a cripple! And thou a soldier of the great 
Augustus! ” 

The soldier stared stupidly. “Nay, it 
was but in sport,” he mumbled, unable to 
fathom the strange awe with which this child 
inspired him. “ It was but in sport.” 

“It is but poor sport,” cried the child 
again, “ and unworthy! Wouldst thou call it 
13 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


i : i mm 

sport if thou wert Joel and he a soldier of 
Augustus? Give me the halves. My father 
will join them in his workshop if I ask him. 
Come thou with me, Joel! ” 

He passed to the center of the silent, 
astonished circle, and placed his arm about 
the shrunken shoulders of a crippled boy 
with sad, drawn features. 

“ Come thou with me, Joel,” he whispered, 
“ My father will to-morrow mend thy ball. 
It shall be as good as new then, I promise 
thee. Come! ” 

They moved away across the open space 
to the entrance of a narrow street beyond. 
The crowd dispersed, the soldiers half-scom- 
ful, half-subdued; the boys, perplexed, in¬ 
credulous. The child’s mother followed him, 
pride and wonder in her heart. 

“ Some day all will be well with thee, 
Joel,” she heard him say. “ Something tells 
me that some day thou shalt be a cripple no 
longer. Wait and see if I do not tell thee 
true.” 

Shy, half-embarrassed, very grateful, the 
crippled boy gazed at this child, who was 
younger than himself, but whom he strangely 
14 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


revered and loved. Then turning on his 
rough crutches, he started down the narrow 
street, looking back every now and then until 
the child and his mother disappeared around 
another and sharper curve of the crooked 
road. 







































































































































































































THE BIRTHDAY GIFTS 


H URRIEDLY now the two went home¬ 
ward, she holding him closely within 
a fold of her garment, for the night 
grew cold, and soon they reached the western 
outskirts of Nazareth where their home lay, 
together with the adjoining workshop of 
Joseph, the carpenter. 

It was into this workshop that they entered 
first, the child throwing aside the restraining 
garment fold, and drawing his mother eagerly 
after him. The low room was small and 
confusedly littered by stray tools and loose 
scraps of wood and iron. In one corner 
several pieces of unfinished work, patiently 
waiting completion, were huddled together; 
in another, nearest the door, stood a table, 
on whose rough, unplaned surface was heaped 
a motley collection of bruised and battered 
toys — headless spears, dilapidated kite- 
frames, broken chariots. 

A man, bent and heavily bearded, sat on a 
rude bench in the center of the little shop, 
and by the flickering and uncertain glare of 
19 




































HIS BIRTHDAY 


a torch-light polished and re-polished some¬ 
thing which he held upon his knees. He 
raised his head as the two entered, his dark 
eyes, so common to his race, giving them 
welcome. Then without comment he would 
have resumed his task, had not the child 
laid a resisting hand upon his arm. 

“ See, father, here are the halves of Joel’s 
ball.” And he held in either outstretched 
hand the cracked and mutilated pieces of 
wood. “ The soldiers of Augustus tore it 
from him, and broke it by rough play. But 
I said thou couldst mend it for him. And 
thou canst, father? ” 

The man looked from the child’s mother to 
the child, and then toward the table with its 
load of sad, broken things. 

“ Place Joel’s ball there with the other 
toys, my son,” he said. “ To-morrow I will 
mend them all for thy friends. But to-day I 
have given up all to complete thy gift. Come 
nearer to the light. Art thou pleased? ” 

The boy stood beneath the light which 
glowed around his dark head and eager face. 
In his outstretched arms his father placed a 
long, narrow box, made of Lebanon cedar 
20 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


and sweet to the smell. It was polished well, 
and fastened by a shining clasp. The child’s 
eyes shone, as he held, examined, and opened 
it. 

“ Art thou pleased? ” his father asked 
again, almost wistfully. 

“It is beautiful, father!” he cried. “Is 
it not, mother? ” She nodded, smiling, glad 
in his joy. “ And now my treasures need 
lie no longer in the great chest, but may 
be in my new box. May I have it? Is it 
quite complete? ” 

“ It needs but one more dressing of oil, 
and then a little polishing to make it quite 
complete,” the man answered. “ Go with 
thy mother and get thy treasures ready. 
I will soon bring it to thee.” 

They passed through the workshop and a 
little inner court to the dimly-lighted house, 
low-storied and white-walled, built somewhat 
after the manner of the rich homes of Rome 
with atrium and rooms opening on either side, 
but small, crude in its workmanship, and 
primitive in its furnishings. The woman, 
followed by the eager child, walked hur¬ 
riedly the length of the poor center room to 
21 




, 'W$ v ^l : ' ■ m 

HIS BIRTHDAY 

a chest near the farther door, pulled from it 
a rude cover of goat-skins, raised the lid, 
and drew forth with careful fingers a small 
bundle, wrapped in white wool, and tied with 
thongs of skin. 

“ Here are thy treasures, dear,” she said, 
unknotting the tough thongs. “ Here are 
the gold coins which the strange and wise 
men from the Far East brought thee, and the 
alabaster boxes of frankincense and sweet 
myrrh; and here the olive branch which the 
shepherds from the hills without Bethlehem 
gave thee, and the dried flower placed in thy 
hand by the sweet-voiced herdsboy on the 
hills north of Nazareth. And the wool in 
which they are wrapped is that in which I 
wrapped thee to keep thee from the cold.” 

She gave the loosened bundle into his 
hands, and watched him, as, sitting on a low 
stool by her side, he drew out each gift 
separately and gazed at it lovingly; then ar¬ 
ranged each in order in the lap of his 
tunic. 

“ They must be tired of the great chest,” 
he mused with quaint fancy. “ Weary of 
lying so often unnoticed among so many 

22 




HIS BIRTHDAY 


other things. They will like the new box, 
will they not, mother? ” 

“Yes,” she said, “I am sure that they 
will. But I forget. There is yet something 
in the great chest. My own gift for thee.” 

He would have sprung from the stool in 
his eager excitement had he not remembered 
the treasures in his lap. 

“ Draw it from the chest, mother,” he 
entreated, “ but slowly, while I bind these 
again in the wool.” 

She obeyed, opening the lid slowly, and 
awaiting his preparation. 

“ Now! ” he cried, laying the bundle upon 
the stool, and standing beside her. “ Now! ” 
She drew a second and larger bundle from 
the chest, and unfolded its contents, bringing 
before his shining eyes a little coat of red 
and blue wool, the colors curiously inter¬ 
mingled. He put it on at once over his 
white tunic, and embraced her rapturously. 

“ Oh! ” he cried. “ A new coat! And 
bright like that which Joseph’s father gave 
him in the stories thou tellest me! ” 

She laughed as joyously as he. “And I 
made it for thee as Hannah of old made that 
23 




























HIS BIRTHDAY 


of little Samuel in the same stories of our 
people. Dost remember? ” 

He nodded. Then — 

“ See! ” he whispered. “ An old man begs 
entrance at our door. He is like the prophets 
of our race of which thou tellest me.” 

Quite unconscious in their joy they had 
not heeded the entrance of a stranger, who 
now rested wearily against the door-post — 
a very old man with the long white beard of 
the patriarchs and the searching eyes of the 
seers. He stood staff in hand, and gazed 
in strange incredulity at the woman and the 
child, who, half in fear, half in awe, clung to 
his mothers garment. 

“It is even so the same child and his 
mother,” spoke the old man in deep tones, 
more to himself than to them, while his eyes 
ever scanned their faces. “ Verily, the 
Spirit hath led me to this house, as six years 
since It led me to the temple where I first 
beheld his glory.” 

Still lost in wonder he stood there. So 
deep in meditation was he that he did not 
heed the woman’s greeting of welcome; 
did not perceive that the child, his shyness 

24 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


conquered, had left his mother’s side and 
with pretty courtesy had come forward to 
add his solicitation to her own; did not 
note in the shadows behind the two the dark 
figure of the silent Nazarene carpenter. 

The woman spoke first. “ My father,” 
she said, gently and reverently, “ thou art 
wayworn and weary. Rest with us this 
night, and on the morrow continue thy 
journey. Lay thyself upon this couch. Thou 
honorest our house by thy presence. My 
son, wilt thou bring water and oil, while I 
prepare food and drink? ” 

The child started eagerly to obey, but the 
old man came forward and placed his hand 
upon the boy’s head. 

“ Thou dost not know me, my son.” 

“ Nay, master,” said the child. “Yet in my 
father’s house is no man a stranger, but a friend.” 
“ Dost thou know me, my daughter? ” 

“I know thee.” She spoke quietly, but 
intensely, and as though those simple words 
brought memories, rushing over her, engulfing 
her in their sacredness. “ I know thee. 
Thou art one Simeon, — he who was in the 
temple when we brought the child to do 
25 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


sacrifice before the Lord. Thou raised him 
in thine arms and blessed him.” She turned 
toward the bent figure of her husband, who 
had come to her side, and whose years 
seemed strangely multiplied in contrast with 
her own fresh youthfulness. 

“ Thou rememberest, my husband? ” 

“Yea, verily,” said the Nazarene carpen¬ 
ter. And then to his guest, “ Father, thou 
wilt abide with us in peace to-night? My 
son already brings water for thy feet, and his 
mother will give thee food.” 

The old man sank gratefully upon the 
couch toward which they had led him. 

“ I will rest and partake of thy food,” he 
said, “that a blessing may be upon this 
house, and a greater upon mine own head. 
But then must I resume my journey. I go 
to Cana in Galilee to assist there in the 
consecration of a temple. I have been 
wondrously led to this house. May God’s 
blessing rest upon it! ” 

The carpenter bent his dark, heavy head; 
the child, drawing near with basin and water- 
jar, paused a moment to bend his own. 
Then he came and knelt by the couch. 

26 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


“ I would unloose thy sandals, my father, 
and wash and anoint thy feet,” he said. 

“ Thy service to the wayworn hath already 
begun, my son, — that I perceive. And thine 
age? Is it in truth six years since thou wast 
born? ” 

The child, kneeling before him, raised his 
eager, flushed face. 

“ This is my birthday eve, my father. 
It is six years to-night since I was born in 
Bethlehem of Judea.” He bent to his task, 
his curls falling around his face, in every 
sensitive line of which was written the pride 
he felt because he, a little boy, was allowed 
to do graciously for the stranger within his 
father’s house. 

Painstakingly he untied the dusty sandal 
knots, removed the sandals, and placed the 
tired feet in the deep, water-filled basin. 
Gently he kneaded the weary, aching muscles 
with his child’s fingers, then dried the feet 
upon the towel with which he had girded 
himself, and lastly anointed them with sooth¬ 
ing oil. Meanwhile his mother brought nour¬ 
ishing cakes and fresh goat’s milk, of which 
the old man gratefully partook. 

27 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


The boy, his task finished, carried away 
his basin, jar, and oil-flask, and then, re¬ 
turning, stole to his father, who sat silently 
apart. 

“ Was it well done, father? ” he whispered. 
“ Thou couldst have better served him, that 
I know, but I tried to pattern after thee. 
Was it well done? ” 

“Yes, my son, thy father is proud of 
thee.” 

The voice of the old man rose through the 
quiet room. 

“ My son, I now resume my journey to 
Cana of Galilee. I would bless thee before 
I go. Draw near with thy father.” 

The boy came at once across the stone 
floor, his father following more slowly. Their 
guest had arisen and stood facing the door. 
The child knelt before him, his father and 
mother behind their son on either side. Then 
the old man placed his thin, trembling hands 
on the boy’s bent head. His voice, deep with 
strange and strong emotion, rang through 
the room. 

“ As six years past in Jerusalem I held 
this child in my arms and blessed him, even 

28 


HIS BIRTHDAY 

so now do I bless him in his father’s 
house. 

44 4 Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant de¬ 
part in peace, for mine eyes have again seen 
Thy salvation, 

44 4 Which Thou hast prepared before the 
face of all people. 

44 4 A light to lighten the Gentiles and the 
glory of Thy people Israel.’ ” 

And in the stillness which followed, Joseph 
and the child’s mother marvelled much at 
those things which were spoken. 

Thereafter, the old man blessed them also, 
while the child still knelt, and said to his 
mother strange words, — words heard six 
years before and, as then, — poignant with 
suffering. 

4 4 4 Yea, my daughter, a sword shall pierce 
through thine own soul also.’ ” 

Then gathering his garment in one hand 
and taking his staff in the other, he passed 
over the threshold and into the darkness 
without. 


29 
































































THE STORY OF 

JESUS’ FIRST BIRTHDAY RETOLD 




' 


-•■.f.-fX'W’ -- 

4 W • "• "i 















































































































Ill 

THE STORY OF 

JESUS’ FIRST BIRTHDAY RETOLD 


S ILENTLY the carpenter withdrew to his 
corner of the little atrium; silently the 
child watched his mother who stood) 
her hands pressed against her heart, and 
gazed with wide-open, frightened eyes into the 
darkness whence had passed their guest. 
She saw there neither the lights of Naza¬ 
reth nor the moon that silvered the Galilean 
hills; but before her eyes rose the white 
pillars of the temple at Jerusalem, the purple 
altar-cloth, the smoke of incense ascending; 
and in her ears above the voices of the chant¬ 
ing priests, sounded the piteous cry of doves 
brought for sacrifice. Her son watched her, 
his own face troubled. 

“ Mother,” he said, his arms around her. 
“ Thou lookest sad. Our guest was very 
strange. Didst thou understand his words? ” 
Her arms held him close, drew him closer. 
“ Didst thou? ” he persisted. 

“Not fully, dear,” she said at last. “Yet 
they were all a part of his blessing, I doubt 
33 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


not. But come, it draws late. The moon is 
rising over the hills of Moab, and it is al¬ 
ready past thy bed-time.” 

“But the stories! We need not give them 
up? Say we need not, mother! ” 

Her eyes, smiling at his eagerness, lost 
their look of fear. 

“ We need not,” she told him, “ but has¬ 
ten! Thy treasures are on the stool by the 
great chest; and the new box I saw thy 
father place upon thy bed in the eastward 
room. Run, give him thy thanks, and bid 
him good-night.” 

He ran eagerly to where his father sat, 
still apart and alone, and kissed his dark, 
bearded face. 

“ I am going to put them in it now, father,” 
he whispered. “ Come and see, and hear 
the stories. Wilt thou? ” 

“ Later, perhaps, my son, but I have 
tasks yet to do. Go to thy mother who 
awaits thee. I am glad the box pleases thee.” 

The child bounded away, hop-skipping in 
his eagerness across the rough floor to the 
room where his mother awaited him. Hastily 
he prepared for the night, folding with great 
34 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


precision his new coat and placing it at the 
foot of his bed, changing his woolen tunic 
for a lighter gown, and washing his dusty 
little feet in the same basin in which he had 
bathed the traveller’s, though his own were 
less carefully done. Lastly, he knelt beside 
his mother, and, with her arm close around 
him, with his hands folded and his eyes 
closed, he said his evening prayer — a prayer 
which, like that of every child, ascended to 
Heaven an offering, not a petition. Then 
clambering into her lap, he placed his new 
box upon his knees, and from the bundle on 
the bed drew the first of his treasures. 

“ The olive branch, mother. Tell about 
that.” 

She cuddled him close in her arms. “ That 
olive branch,” she began, but he interposed 
hastily. 

“ Thou forgettest the beginning, mother. 
‘ Long years ago, on the very day that thou 
wast born — 9 ” 

She laughed. Then she began again. 

“ Long years ago, on the very day that 
thou wast born — six years ago this very 
night, dear — thy father and I were travel- 

35 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


ling toward Jerusalem to pay our tax to the 
great emperor Augustus. The roads were 
hard for the winter rains had been heavy, 
and as at nightfall we reached Bethlehem, 
I grew tired and ill. Like many others going 
up to Jerusalem for the same purpose, we 
stopped at the inn just without the village, 
and asked shelter for the night, but — ” 

“ There was no room for thee.” Again the 
child interrupted, his eyes dark with pity. 
“ This part always makes me sad, mother — 
to think there was no room for thee when 
thou wast ill and weary.” 

She kissed him. “ Nay, dear, do not be 
sad. The inn-keeper was kind, but there 
were others who had come before us, also 
weary and very likely ill. He could not ask 
them to give us their beds; but he offered 
us the only shelter left, the stable without the 
inn. Thy father was loath to accept it, 
thinking it too poor shelter for me, but it was 
late and we dared look no farther. 

“ It was not uncomfortable, dear, nor very 
cold. Many of the inn-keeper’s sheep were 
still upon the hills, so that there was room 
for the asses and horses of the travellers, 
36 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


and one large, straw-filled manger in which I 
could rest. And the breath of the kind crea¬ 
tures standing about made the air warmer, 
so that I did not suffer from the cold.” 

He was smiling again and listening eagerly. 
“ And there I was born.” 

“ There thou wast born.” She spoke softly, 
her face suffused with joy. “ Very, very 
early in the morning while it was still dark 
without. Through an opening in the roof, I 
could see from where I lay the sky, filled 
with stars. And one star, bigger and brighter 
than all the rest, seemed to be looking down 
upon me, and thee in my arms, and thy 
father standing near.” 

The child was sitting upright in his ex¬ 
citement, his eyes glowing, his breath coming 
quickly. 

“ And didst thou see angels, mother? 
Tell me truly this time! Were there angels 
in the sky? Didst thou see them? ” 

Thoughtfully she studied his face, while he, 
impatient, awaited her answer. 

“Dear,” she said at last, “I cannot tell 
thee truly, for I do not know. Angels are 
very near to every mother when she first 
37 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


realizes that her baby has been born. But 
whether the angels were truly in the sky or 
just as truly in my own heart, I cannot tell. 
Dost thou wish greatly that there had been 
angels? ” 

“ I am sure there were, mother,” he an¬ 
swered positively. “ Remember thou wast 
tired and ill, and thou couldst not see clearly 
perhaps. But my father saw them and heard 
them sing. He told me but to-day in the 
workshop. And the shepherds — thou re- 
memberest them, and what they told thee 
about the angels? ” 

“ Truly, I remember them. I was just to 
tell you of them. As I lay looking at the 
star, there appeared in the open door-way 
of the stable a light, and the dim figures of 
shepherds. They seemed half-frightened and 
shy of approach, but as thy father went 
forward to greet them, they asked if a child 
had not been born in that very place. Then 
he told them of thee, and they crowded 
around thee and me, — bent and bearded 
men, but kindly. One held his rude lantern 
above thy face so as to see thee more clearly, 
and the others knelt and strangely honored 
38 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


thee — a simple babe. And one, the eldest 
and most bent, placed this olive branch within 
thy tiny hand.” 

“ And they said? ” the child persisted. 

She read his thought. “ They said that as 
one of their number watched their flocks 
upon the hillside, a star, brighter than all 
other stars, shone in the sky, and angels 
sang of thy birth in a Bethlehem manger. 
And that the one watching aroused the others, 
heavy with sleep, and following the star, 
they found thee as the angels had sung.” 

“ And thou believest my father and the 
shepherds, dost thou not, mother? ” 

“ I have always believed thy father, dear. 
In his great joy over thee, I am sure he saw 
and heard the angels; and the shepherds of 
our land have often talked with angels in 
their lonely watches on the hills.” 

Thoughtfully he placed the olive branch in 
his new box; and then from the bundle drew 
the alabaster boxes of frankincense and 
myrrh and the little bag filled with the strange 
coins. 

“Now about these, mother, which the 
strange men from the East brought me.” 

39 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


“ That was later,” she told him. “ Thou 
wast twelve days old when they came. They 
were strange men from the countries far to 
the east of us, with the long beards of 
patriarchs and singular white robes and hats. 
Their eyes were dark and piercing and very 
deep, as though they were wise and learned, 
and they had read of thy coming in the stars 
they said, for they possessed strange knowl¬ 
edge of the heavens — knowledge which our 
people do not understand.” 

“ And had they also seen the same bright 
star in their far homes? ” he asked. 

“ They told a wonderful story of how a 
star had guided them long days and nights 
across the deserts, as they journeyed on their 
beautiful horses, while camels bore their 
goods and food, and dark servants waited 
upon their needs. There were three of them, 
but so strangely alike were they in their 
white robes that I could ill distinguish one 
from the others. They came and knelt be¬ 
fore thee, and from the deep folds of their 
garments drew these gifts which they had 
brought from afar to proffer thee. They 
made strange signs one to another, and spoke 
40 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


words which I did not understand, and their 
wisdom frightened me somewhat. But they 
loved thee — I, thy mother, could perceive 
that — even as the Judean shepherds loved 
thee.” 

“ And were the camels even larger than 
those that cross Esdraelon? ” 

“ I could hardly say truly, dear, for I saw 
them but dimly through the stable door as 
they were kneeling in the courtyard. But 
they were great creatures, I know, and their 
trappings were of rich cloths, gold-trimmed 
and of bright colors.” 

He sighed — a long, deep sigh. “ I wish 
I could remember it all,” he said wistfully. 
“ Thou hast told me so often it seems as 
though I do remember. I will place these 
treasures with the olive branch in the box, 
and now there is left but the flower. It 
has grown so withered I wonder that it does 
not break. It will fare better in the new 
box.” 

Gently he unwound the wrappings from the 
tiny, withered remnant of a seeded flower, 
which he held carefully in the palm of his 
hand. 










41 


























HIS BIRTHDAY 


“ Every time I look at thee I fear thou 
wilt have crumbled away,” he whispered. 
And then, “ Tell me about it, mother.” 

“ Thou wast little more than a year old 
when it was given thee,” she said. “ I 
took thee in my arms one day and went with 
thee upon the hills. It was a day very like 
this one, the rains having ceased for a little. 
Thou wast so joyful at the sight of the new 
blossoms and so happy in the sunshine that 
I wandered far with thee over the hills toward 
the north. And in a little valley there, bright 
with many-colored flowers, I found a shep¬ 
herd boy with his flock. 

“ He was an earnest-faced lad of Joel’s 
age perhaps, roughly-clad, but gentle and 
gracious of manner, and when he saw thee 
laughing at the flowers, he left his crook 
upon the ground and came toward thee. 
And as he came he pulled from among the 
many blossoms all about, this one which was 
not a blossom at all, but a seed-ball covered 
with tiny winged seeds of thistle down. 
Then he knelt in the soft grass and passed 
the flower up to thee, and thy little hands 
were outstretched eagerly as though it were 
42 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


fresh and bright of hue. Then thou pursed 
thy little lips and blew against the seeds, 
and they sailed away over the meadow. But 
thy fingers clung to this, and when I saw 
thy love for it, I put it away for thee. He 
was a strange lad, I think,” she finished, 
musingly, “ else he would have given thee a 
flower.” 

The child was silent for a moment. “ Per¬ 
haps, an angel told him I would like the 
little seed-ball,” he whispered. “ Just as the 
angel told me that some day Joel would be a 
cripple no longer. Dost think an angel told 
him, mother? ” 

“It is not unlikely,” she said. “Angels 
would tell us much if we would but listen. 
Dear, place the little seed-ball with the other 
treasures in thy box, and then I must put 
thee in thy bed to sleep. Thou art tired and 
must rest if to-morrow we are to go upon 
the hills.” 

“ May I not keep my treasure-box by me 
while I sleep? ” he pleaded. “ Then I shall 
know that it is safe. Say that I may, 
mother.” 

“Thou mayest,” she promised him. “But 

43 




HIS BIRTHDAY 


lay thee down, dear. One song I will sing 
thee before thou sleepest. Which shall it be?” 

He pondered, deciding, as she smoothed 
the coverlet, and tucked him in securely 
against the cold night air. Then, as she 
kissed him, 

“ Sing the shepherd song of our fathers. 
That pleases me, I think, the most of all. 
Perhaps the shepherd boy who gave me the 
flower sings it when he is alone with his 
sheep. Dost think so, mother? ” 

“ I am sure he does,” she said. 

Sitting by him, she held one hand in hers, 
while the other rested on his precious box, 
which he had encircled closely with his 
arm. Then his mother watching sang him 
to sleep: 

“Jehovah, the Lord, is my shepherd. I shall want 
for nothing. 

In green pastures He maketh me to rest; by still 
waters He leadeth me. 

Through His mercy is my soul restored.” 

Almost at once he slept, wearied by hap¬ 
piness. Gently she placed the hand which 
she held beneath the coverlet; very gently 
she brushed back a lock of hair, which had 

44 


HIS BIRTHDAY 


fallen across his forehead. Then, bending 
forward, she watched her little boy asleep. 
Across the threshold of the doorway a shadow 
fell, and Joseph, the carpenter, came to sit 
beside her. Together they gazed upon him, 
— his hair dark upon the pillow, a smile upon 
his face, in the circle of his arm his precious 
box. Together they loved him. 

The hours of the night waned; the moon 
journeyed toward its resting-place in Mediter¬ 
ranean waters; the hills of Moab waited — 
patient, undistracted, faithful. It was very 
still. But when the stillness was at its 
height, when all discordant sounds had 
ceased, there gleamed and quivered over 
those hills of Moab a star! 

And who shall say that angels did not 
sing — behind the veil which faithlessness 
has woven? Perhaps the child’s heart, listen¬ 
ing, heard them, for the two watching saw 
him smile, and hold his treasures yet more 
closely as he slept. 





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